


Pop-Fly

by maaaaa



Series: Floater [2]
Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:22:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23528335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maaaaa/pseuds/maaaaa
Summary: This was written for TS Ficathon as a companion piece to Floater but it can be read as standalone. My prompts were Lovers Walk and Hardball. Beta'd by Spacepixell, but any remaining errors are mine. Originally posted 5/25/08.Glimpses of Jim's and Blair's lives pre-canon and post TSBYBS living with the Chopec.
Relationships: Jim Ellison/Blair Sandburg
Series: Floater [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693147
Kudos: 5





	Pop-Fly

Blair Sandburg lost his virginity the summer after he turned fifteen.

It was a hot, lazy summer spent in a small town at the edge of nowhere where Naomi had some friends from her Haight-Ashbury days who’d set up a moderately successful new-age retreat.

Living with the ex-hippies was by itself enough to set Blair apart in the eyes of the close-banded teenagers in the town. But earlier that spring his failed attempt at styling his hair into a mullet left him with a look all his own…wild, unkempt, and rebellious, adding to his standing as an outsider.

On top of that he’d pierced his left ear, ahead of other boys his age who bragged they might do it as an awkward, bravado act of defiance deemed so necessary at that age.

He did it because it just seemed cool. He’d read somewhere that way back in time there were primitive tribes that pierced their ears for magical purposes, believing that demons entered the body through the ear, so earrings were worn to ward them off. And further on in history a sailor would pierce his ears in the hopes that if he drowned and his body washed ashore the earrings could be sold to buy him a Christian burial. The first reason appealed to his interest in mysticism, the second to his wanderlust, both to his fascination with anthropology.

Naomi had smiled non-judgmentally when he’d showed her, and then nodded approvingly. She’d tucked a few stray curls behind his ear, touched his cheek as she appraised it, and then suggested adding a second piercing, saying something about channeling positive energies more efficiently. So he had.

That summer, in that small town, with its run of the mill intolerances, if it’d been in his nature to do so, Blair would’ve remained as an outsider looking in. He could’ve holed up inside the retreat grounds…reading, helping with chores, or participating in any number of aura-cleansing rituals, but instead he insinuated himself into their midst.

And any reservations the kids may have had about acceptance vanished in an instant the minute the baseball players among them saw him throw a ball.

Summer baseball, the quintessential small town America pastime, became their common ground. Blair spent hour upon hour practicing with the local team during long drawn out afternoons under a sweltering sun and game after game pitted against neighboring towns’ teams in the sticky-warm evenings.

He was an inconsistent batter, but he more than made up for it when he took the pitcher’s mound or played right field.

And in between practices and games, the guys from the team and the girls they dated or chummed around with hung out at the drive-in, downing creamy-smooth malts made with real ice cream and devouring fries by the pound or beat the heat by swimming at the nearby quarry. They saw that summer’s blockbusters by sneaking into the movie theater where Zach’s twin sister worked the concession stand.

And when there was nothing else to do but sit around the park, skipping stones out across the lake or dropping a fishing line into a slow moving stream, they’d swap stories. Blair telling them of the far-flung places he’d roamed with Naomi, and listening in turn in starry-eyed wonder to their stories of small town life with its picket fences, backyard barbeques, and church bake sales.

It was Zach’s sister Zoe who took Blair’s hand one evening and pulled him away from the others, leading him down a path off the park’s edge to a hidden copse hedged in by fragrant butterfly bushes whose namesakes fluttered about them while they made clumsy, frantic first-time love. She was pretty and smart, and Blair knew she’d chosen him partly because he was different and intriguing to her young mind and partly as an act of recalcitrant behavior aimed at her father’s wishes that she not associate with the weird hippie-boy, and it didn’t matter.

And if she was put off by Blair’s inexperience, she didn’t let it show. And if she was a virgin too she didn’t let on.

The experience was hundreds of times more satisfying than he’d imagined it would be. Thousands of times more incredible than the books Naomi had given him to read and discussed with him had even come close to describing; rapturously more mind-blowing than jerking off in a still, dark room.

And then one night near the end of summer, when the guys were giddily buzzed after sharing a joint one of them had swiped from his college brother’s room, and everyone else had stumbled away claiming not to be high, Zach persuaded Blair to go with him down the butterfly path. And in the same intimate clearing, now pungent with the spent fragrances of withered petals scattered about them, Zach showed Blair there was more than one way to be deflowered.

That summer, at the edge of nowhere and on the cusp of manhood, Blair basked in the simple joys of playing ball and the discovery of first loves.

It was the most incredible summer of Blair’s life.

Until now.

~*~*~*~

“Hawalla hawa!” Blair shouted as Jim stepped up to the line. He glanced around the rough patch of trampled down saw grass at his teammates, as he always did when he knew his Quechua was shaky.

They’d all heard his mangled attempt to indicate Jim would be an easy out enough times to just laugh and nod in agreement.

Blair pointed to Jim anyway. He held his hands up, as if holding a stick, and affected the stance Jim had taken. And then, with exaggerated motions, he swung his arms through the air, spinning himself around with the momentum.

This elicited more laughing and good-natured catcalls aimed at Jim, backing up Blair’s claim. It was amusing to no end that their sentinel couldn’t hit a fist-sized ball tossed at him by his guide with a bat that was big enough and wide enough to make the effort child’s play.

“Yeah, yeah, Chief,” Jim responded mulishly. “Just pitch the damn ball already,” he muttered under his breath before shouting, loudly and hoarsely, “Waraqa!”

The tribe had several variations of recreational games involving various sized balls and cricket-type bats, each called by the all-encompassing term pukllay. But when Blair and Jim joined the tribe, Blair steadily incorporated some baseball rules over time, and soon a new version, the fast growing favorite among one and all, was accorded a name all its own.

Pukllay-BlairJim.

Anyone and everyone over the age of thirteen, male and female, was allowed to participate in the no holds barred rough and tumble sport that combined aspects of at least four different games as well as Blair’s new rules and any other rules anyone could come up with and make stand. Teams were formed willy-nilly as players came and went at their whim as their time permitted. Play sometimes went on for hours starting in early morning and continuing on into the night until the moon set or there was no one left with enough stamina to continue, whichever came first.

At other times Blair and Jim played a gentler version with the youngsters in the cool of the early evening. Jim would take mock swats at the little ones’ backsides with his bat as they ran the bases, squealing with glee. And then he’d wallop Blair’s behind for real and mayhem would ensue as Blair made monkey faces at them and Jim while dancing a jig and rubbing his bottom. They’d all fall upon Jim, in Blair’s defense, laughing and pummeling him with their fists.

And later, if needed, and even if not, Jim would kiss the sting away as they lay in their hut, which would lead to amorous ministrations and passionate lovemaking. And if more swats landing on bare flesh could be heard from outside the thin walls from time to time, no one paid it any mind.

Blair tossed the ball up and down a few times. It was a true hardball, fashioned by wrapping layers of cloth around a smooth, round stone, then encasing it with small, neatly spaced stitching using the same tanned, pliable hide that was a staple for many of the tribe’s necessities. Blair liked the heft of the ball, the way the hide felt, warm and grainy in the palm of his hand, knowing the communal effort that went into the construction of even so simple an item, and taking satisfaction in being a part of it.

He glanced once more around the field, this time to take note of the runners. He wound up and let the ball fly. His arm hadn’t lost any of its luster since that summer long gone and the ball zipped past Jim’s determined swing, whistling through the air and into the catcher’s net.

Jim’d tried once to introduce a standard sized baseball bat to the game; one he’d painstakingly fashioned, but had been voted down resoundingly. The only choices when a pitch came sailing were to hit the ball or go down swinging, and he just couldn’t connect with the odd sized bat used in the game.

At least not when Blair was pitching.

He’d take the mound in that infernal loin cloth, and it didn’t matter that it was the standard dress for all the other male players, not just him, but his hung loosely in just the right places and flapped-snapped against his thighs and ass. And he always seemed to manage to be just a bit sweatier than everyone else, and the paint daubs signifying which team he was on were always swabbed carelessly on his cheek bones and upper arms so that when beads of perspiration trickled along his biceps they mingled with the paint creating abstract splotches and dribbled along his jaw pooling at the corners of his mouth before dripping across his chin. And the little punk’d murmur things; things only Jim could hear, taunting Jim to hit the ball, because he knew Jim could hit it, but if he did it’d be a pop-up, and that’d be worse than striking out because Blair’d be the one to catch it, and he’d be smug to beat the band if that happened. And if all that wasn’t distracting enough to make Jim waffle every single time, the sight of Blair squinting his eyes in concentration, and gnawing his bottom lip, and oozing pheromones like nobody’s business because having Jim at his mercy made his cock twitch maddeningly, never failed to blow Jim’s timing all to hell.

It was the fourth time Jim’d been struck out in as many times at bat, leaving runners stranded, defenders open to the tacklers and his team captain facing the gauntlet. None of them looked too happy with him.

So Jim decided it was a good time to incorporate a new rule.

He dropped his bat, yelled “Charge!” and took off at a dead run, heading straight for Blair, invoking the new rule in Quechua as he made it up in a loud, authoritative voice as he ran.

“On fourth strikeout, with six runners on and only two defenders left standing---,” he quickly checked his head count, in case there were any protests lodged later, “if the batter overtakes the pitcher,” he jabbed a thumb into his chest and then pointed a finger at Blair emphatically, “ before the pitcher can make it to the second goal line,” he waved a hand in the general direction of the mentioned area and sucked in a breath, “then the game’s over!”

Catching onto the premise of what Jim was trying to pull and seeing the gleam in his eyes as he thundered toward him, Blair didn’t bother to try to translate. He only hesitated a moment before yelling, “Ellison, you cheating bastard!” Then he took off in the direction opposite of the second goal line, laughing and flinging additional insults over his shoulder as he ran.

The rest of the players gave up the game when they saw their sentinel pursuing his guide with that look in his eyes, and began dispersing, arguing genially about the newly imposed rule as they quit the field.

Jim caught up to Blair easily as he neared the edge of the playing field. He barreled into him, checking his body-slam at the last moment to prevent knocking him to the ground.

Blair was still laughing, shaking his head and holding his sides as he stood wheezing with the breathlessness of being caught off guard before he’d started his sprint.

Bare-chested for gameplay, they were both now gleaming with perspiration and buzzing with adrenaline. Through the thin fabric of the loincloths they wore their cocks bumped against each other’s, throbbing with the thrill of it.

Jim brushed flyaway strands of hair from Blair’s face, repeating the movement even after the hair was securely tucked behind his ears, just so he could continue tracing the contours of forehead, cheeks, jaw line and ears. His fingertips lingered on Blair’s left ear as he meticulously toyed with each of the seven hoops and dangles that now pierced sturdy cartilage and soft flesh.

One of Blair’s hands moved to Jim’s hips, his thumb gently stroking slick flesh. His other hand pulled one of Jim’s gently away from his face and down to their sides. He laced their fingers together and tugged at Jim as he jerked his head toward the jungle.

“Come with me,” Blair whispered, his eyes shining with lust and his face so beautiful it was impossible not to kiss it. His head bobbed again, barely perceptibly, and Jim looked over his head and saw the pathway Blair indicated.

Jim knew the path; knew it well, as he did all the paths used by animal or human alike in his territory. It snaked through the jungle along a small stream lined with lush ferns and aromatic flowers. It led to a secluded glen hemmed in by orchids, acacias, and the seductively red hotlips flowers where, overhead, vines trailed among the trees, draping them in a willowy mantle, and monkey ladder poked into the canopy.

The tribe talked of the path in hushed whispers and knowing sniggers if any couples were seen stealing away upon it.

‘Munaqkuna pusaykachay’, he’d heard it referred to by the matrons of the tribe, spoken in soft, wistful cadences and dreamy looks in their eyes. ‘Lovers walk’, as near as he could translate the meaning.

And Blair would certainly know its significance, being a shaman of the tribe, its dream weaver, the one young couples came to at the time of the new moon, to ask him to look for their destiny in his dreams, to seek his blessing within his visions, before they walked the path.

Blair coaxed Jim still, tightening his grip on his hand as he wheedled it lazily and started off toward the path with Jim dazedly in tow.

Jim took a few steps then stopped. “Wait,” he said. He tugged back, bringing Blair up short. He held his head high and unfurled his senses.

He was the picture of a tribal watchman, standing tall and strong, half naked, streaked with sweat, dirt, and paint smudges; primal, unspoiled, on the edge of his tribe’s ground in the middle of the jungle, and Blair fell in love again, forever, forever and again. And he stepped to his side, retaining his grip, so Jim could survey his territory.

When he was satisfied all was well, Jim’s stance relaxed and he looked toward the path under half-lidded eyes.

Blair reiterated his wish, his desire.

“Walk with me.”

The whispered comments of those watching them lingered for a few minutes within the scope of Jim’s hearing, and then faded into the leaves and curled away on the air as they meandered along the pathway.

When they reached the small glen they went at each other like teenagers, laughing and grunting, as they peeled away their loincloths and clumsily fondled and stroked each other while kissing and nipping at each other’s lips, snarling with pent up energy while wrestling to gain purchase on the damp grass. They were grimy and sweaty, slick-skinned and reeking of lustful joy robust enough to sink their teeth into. And then they were on their knees, plastered against one another, their cocks hard and hot between them, spasming and spurting, their arms locked tight around each other holding fast as if letting go would be the end of the world as they kissed and kissed.

They tumbled to the ground then, as Jim’s knees buckled, landing tangled together, adhered to each other by more than their ardent embrace, legs splayed, cocks spent and twitchy, panting like puppies who’d run themselves dizzy.

And after they bathed each other in a shallow blue-green pool where the stream horseshoed lazily before rushing over submerged rocks and downed tree limbs, picking up speed on its way to join the larger river from which the tribe drew water, they made love again with unhurried sureness of hand, coupling with leisurely abandon.

“I let you win you know,” Jim chanced cockily as they lay on their backs staring up through the treetops at the purpling evening sky a short while later.

“Sure you did,” Blair answered airily as he poked him in the ribs and nudged his hip up against Jim’s side so that the warmth of his ass made Jim shiver. “Hawalla hawa,” he taunted in a hoarse, sexy whisper.

“I’ll show you hawalla hawa,” Jim countered huskily as he lunged upward onto his knees; at the same time flipping Blair onto his stomach in a blindingly fast move.

Blair squeaked and giggled and tried to crawl away, but Jim had him pinned. He wrapped an arm under Blair’s waist and pulled, bringing his ass up to meet Jim’s waiting cock. Blair made a few half-hearted, chortled protests as he steadied himself on his forearms, and wiggled helpfully.

“Come’re, my little pop-up,” Jim crooned in a teasing sing-song, adding fish-lipped kissy-noises as he eased into Blair, who groaned in response to his partner’s sappiness, then moaned appreciatively as Jim started slowly pumping away and then pushed back greedily, content with being so easily caught.

The End

* Pop-fly: An American baseball term for a high fly ball hit to the infield that can easily be caught. Also called a pop-up.


End file.
